


Shelter by MJ

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Challenge: Other, M/M, None - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:16:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair in need of help gets it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shelter by MJ

**Author's Note:**

> This is a response to Ann's alternate occupation query. Might

## Shelter

by MJ

Author's disclaimer: Petfly's boys. My ideas. No money, no lawsuits. 

even go on in subsequent installments if I get my life together. 

* * *

Shelter by MJ 

The cold hurt. 

It hurt so much. Burning agony in his feet and hands. Hot icy band around his forehead. Trembling all over. He curled in on himself, drawing up his legs and shoving his hands under his armpits, trying to get away from the cold and its pain but it followed him. 

The cold had always been his enemy but usually it was content to lay seige from the outside. Not this invasion. Not this knifing pain. 

Oh god, it really hurt. 

He groaned, telling the world how bad he felt. The world paid attention. 

A hulking dark form came rushing down the alley at him. 

"No, leave me alone! Please, don't!" His voice was broken and child like in his fear. 

"Easy, pal. No one's going to hurt you now." The voice wrapped around him, calm, sure, quiet but powerful. Warm, strong hands slid gently around his upper back and lifted him away from the wall. 

"Ohaaaa!" An stabbing ache lanced through his head. He tried to still it by wrapping his arms around his skull. 

"You hurt? Where? Let me see." A big hand brushed his hands away and smoothed the hair from his forehead. "Got a gash here." Pats over his arms and chest. When they reached his stomach, he whimpered. "Ribs or stomach too? No blood there." 

His mind, keeping its own agenda, asked how could the man tell that in the dark? 

More pats, over his back and down his legs without encountering other injured places. When the hands lifted away and the man moved back, he sighed the loss of contact. A reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Ok, pal, relax. It is going to be all right." 

The man rose and called out. "Joel, give me a hand. An injured man here." 

A deep voice from the direction of the street. "Right Jim. We need a stretcher?" 

"No, just your arm to get him to the van." 

The other man came then and between them, they got him to his feet. A nasty wave of dizziness swirled the world around and if they had not held him, he would have been down again. He moaned, wishing in some corner of himself he would stop doing that but unable to prevent it. 

It was only a few moments, they taking most of his weight, until they reached the van. In the side door and onto a low bench, the door shut behind them to keep out the cold of the winter's night. As he lay back, they pulled a blanket up from both sides to cover him, leaving an opening down the middle of his chest. 

The big man ... Jim wasn't it?... busied himself with loosening his coat and shirts, delving in to explore his chest and stomach. The fingers were gentle but they found the bad spots pretty quickly. 

"Ahhh!" He tried to make the fingers leave him alone. 

"Just let me see. Some bruising but I don't sense any deep body injury or broken ribs. We can take you to the hospital." Jim pulled the shirts and coat back over him and layered the blanket on top. 

He was not up to facing a long wait in Emergency, eating up credits on his insurance only to be told nothing was seriously wrong. Anyway, he hated hospitals. "No, not that bad." 

"Ok." The other man passed Jim a bottle and some gauze. As the big man swabbed the blood and dirt off his forehead, Jim casually asked, "So, you need a place for the night?" 

The warmth of the van was making him sleepy. It was hard to take in what was being said and worse, to make himself speak. He focussed on trying. "No, I'm fine, man. Got a place, just dropped my keys." He could see disbelief on Jim's face. " No, really, on the ground back there. Wait, I can show you my address. On my driver's licence." Rolling to his side and digging into his pants pocket, "No, no, my wallet's gone!" 

"Don't worry. There's room for you. Maybe you should stay tonight and look for your stuff tomorrow." 

"No, really...", he protested, trying to sit up. Between the whoosey feeling making his stomach lurch and the muzziness from the warmth, sitting up was a mistake. With a groan, he slumped back down. 

"Take it easy. Give yourself a chance to recover. We are ready to head back now, so you can come with us and decide once we get there." 

He felt weak about it but he agreed. Rest now. Explain later. 

Jim nodded, a satisfied expression on his face. He turned to his colleague. "You want to drive this time, Joel? I know you have been wanting to get your hands on this baby." 

A warm chuckle. "You bet, Jim. Didn't think you'd let anyone else drive." 

He let his eyes close as he listened to their banter. 

"Only for you, man. But don't tell anyone. Especially not H." 

"My lips are sealed, my friend." A pause. "So Jim how'd you know the kid was down the alley?" 

"Eyes of an eagle, Joel, eyes of an eagle." 

He drifted off then and only awoke when the side door rolled open, letting in chill night air. 

"Come on, pal, here we are. Let's get you inside." 

"Where ... where are we?" voice muzzy with sleep. 

"Free Street Help Centre. Out we go. Good, grab my arm." 

That independent corner of his mind remarked, 'this is a shelter for the homeless.' 

Strong hands helped him in the door and up some stairs. "Quietly now. People asleep in here." 

Along a corridor and into the long, shadowed room. Down onto a cot. Voice whispering, "Let's get your coat and boots off. Ok, back, under the covers." 

Something was missing. "Wait, my backpack. Oh. Where's my backpack? Got my, my...". 

A big hand pushed his forehead down until his head was back against the pillow. "Deal with that tomorrow. Go to sleep now." The hand stayed on his forehead, rubbing soothingly up into his hair until he relaxed. 

He was so tired he gave up fighting and let Jim pull the blanket over him. In a few minutes he was asleep. 

* * *

The noise of children laughing woke him. For a second he panicked wondering where he was. Then why his head and stomach hurt. With a jerk, he remembered. That damned bar. Those guys who had followed him. 

A soft noise at the doorway. Jim was standing there, his long, ripped body leaning at an angle against the doorframe. Jim, watching him with an inscrutable expression in his eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Sandburg." 

"Hi." He blinked: the man had used his name. 

"Thought I better check that alley out." A big hand swung something up into view. "Found your backpack this morning. And your wallet but I am afraid there is no cash left in it." 

He staggered out of bed, feet almost catching on the blankets in his rush to get up. "Not much in there to begin with." Shoving the wallet into a pocket in his jeans, he immediately began digging into the backpack. When he found all his books and notes, he let go a long sigh of relief. Glancing at the bigger man, "Any sign of my keys?" 

"Yup." Jim handed the keys over. "Guess I pegged you wrong. Thought you were..." 

"...homeless? Nah, man but I sure did need your help last night. Could have frozen to death. I don't think I said thanks. So...thanks." 

A slow smile. "Glad to be there." 

"So you work here, at the shelter?" 

"Manage it." 

Raised eyebrows expressed his surprize. "Manager usually go out on night patrols looking for folks needing help?" 

"This one does." The eyes challenged him to make something of it. 

"That's so cool, man. Frontest of front lines. Right out there where you are needed." He grinned broadly at Jim, whose face relaxed into a smile. 

"Hungry? Come have some breakfast." 

"Starved, man." 

Jim led him downstairs to a large room filled with long tables. Most of the tables were empty and there was no line up at the serving window. "Got something left there, Martin? One more hungry customer." Jim passed Sandburg a tray. 

"Sure, Jim. Scrambled eggs left and some toast. Coffee?" This last to Sandburg. 

"Oh yeah. Thanks." He took the full mug from Martin. "Not too much to eat, though. Stomach's still a bit sensitive." 

Martin, an elderly man in well-worn shirt and trousers under a brightly coloured apron, dished out some eggs and a couple of pieces of toast. "Sorry, toast is not too warm. I could make some fresh." Martin sat the plate on the counter. 

He loaded the plate on the tray. "Nah, I spent time in England. Used to cold toast. Besides, the three Rs." 

"readin', writin', rithmatic?" Martin's wrinkled face puzzled at the irrelevance. 

A chortle, "No, recycle, reuse, reduce. Going to recycle the toast right into my mouth." 

Martin laughed. "Got to remember that one." 

Jim took a mug of coffee for himself and led Sandburg over to the nearest table. As his guest tucked into the food, the shelter manager studied him for a moment. " Tell me, what happened that left you laying beaten up in that alley?" 

Around a mouthful of egg, "Went to the wrong bar, man. Some friends from the U took me there. Cheap beer, hun? I left early but got followed by some guys. Mugged me just as I got my keys out for the car." His face was warm with a blush. "Feel like a real idiot. Been around the world in some rough places and never been mugged." 

"Nothing to be embarassed about. Some mean toughs around that area." He took a sip of coffee. "From the U?" 

"Yah, I'm working on my dissertation in anthropology at Rainier. Hey," a laugh, "maybe I can turn this into a paper! Night-stalking habits of aggressive urban-dwelling fringe tribes. Need to do a bit more field research though." 

Jim did not smile. "Could have gone a lot worse for you, Chief. Stay away from them." 

As Sandburg was about to reply, a flurry of children raced into the room and right by them, voices squealing loud and high. Jim's face went pale and he clutched at his head. He bent forward over the table with a groan. Sandburg leapt up and went around to him,  
hands reaching out to comfort. 

"Hey man, what's wrong?" 

The voice was rough with pain. "The noise...too much." He lurched to his feet but staggered. Sandburg grabbed his arm, steadying him. 

"Maybe you should sit down." 

"No, need to get to..." 

"Where? Let me help you." 

"Office. Through there." 

Sandburg led the bigger man out of the dining hall and across the hallway to a small office crowded with a desk, three chairs and several filing cabinets. For all its cramped condition, the space was very organized, and very, very tidy. He helped Jim into a chair and swung the door to, shutting out the joyful squeals of the children. The big man sank forward to rest his head on his crossed arms. 

After a few minutes, Jim straightened up. "Thanks." 

"No problem. What happened there?" 

Reluctantly, "I am...sensitive to noise." 

Something made Sandburg ask, "What about your other senses?" 

Crystal blue eyes looked up at him. 

* * *

End Shelter. 


End file.
